Bold
by acina-m
Summary: She's far, farther than they've ever been before. And they can't reach her—they can't, because she's simply not there anymore. She's gone. /She went back. And it wasn't her choice. When had they ever? (Time travel schtuff, Tomione)


**Bold**

**Chapter One**

The first thing she saw was the woodlands, drenched in the darkness that sings of the existence of everything stealthy and should not be tested. It pulls at her worries and forces out her worst fears to manifest within the confines of her mind—_singing and chanting in the old song of forgotten time. _How things have truly changed for a child like her, whose soul had been forced to grow up from the cage of innocence it had been once growing out of.

In the woodlands, she does not find solace, but she finds tragedies woven into the bark of each tree that stands before her like a shield, singing of flora and fauna that had been threatened with the existence of darkness. The ancient magic it possesses lingers off of their being and caresses her own, as if soothing her before an untimely fate.

_And perhaps _this _fate was _certainly_ untimely, and perhaps they were _indeed _singing their goodbyes. _

Her stiff legs began to move, and every moment felt faster, _harder_ to maintain as she contemplated her existence within this war, and everything she had given up, just for the sake of their freedom and peace. She was a witch named Hermione Granger, with magic running through her veins that contained a massive facet of great potential. She was a young girl who strove hard for success, and even harder for friendship. She was a girl turned into a woman in the face of an impending war, with her as one of the warriors at the front. She was the most brightest witch of her age.

And with each step, she thought, _an age that would soon end. _

Then, the next thing she knew, in the murky shadows of the darkness of the Forbidden Forest that let in faint light like the murals of shadow and light painted beneath the surface of the Black Lake, whispers and jeers were resounding, and she was reminded of her purporse. Her heart beat like the chugging of the fastest train in London, and adrenaline began pumping through her, forcing her steps to cover meters faster than before, and she can't _think_, can't _hesitate_, as she hears death pounding along beside her, fast apporaching in its ascent to Harry Potter, her best friend, her partner in crime, her _brother_—and Hermione Granger is a _human girl_, and at acknowledgeing this, _Death _is a being tied to our fates, and we cannot outrun him, for he is simply _there_, already waiting for us.

And when Hermione Granger finally stops, with her legs throbbing, her mind reeling, and with her heart waiting to burst from the cage that lines the formation of her chest that houses her heart, she silences herself, and hears the jeers that echo through nature, and that of which sings devastation to her ears, and bring dread and destruction to her existence. Her psyche.

And she feels herself just _losing_ hope—her whole being _snapping_ in half at jsut realising how much she had just lost. _Now, she loses her mind._

Harry Potter—the Chosen One—the Boy-Who-Lived—the Boy who _wanted _to live, but was resigned to fate, now lay dead by forest floor, another warrior taken by the merciless war and the unbiased death, and Hermione doesn't _feel _anything, _cannot comprehend_ the loss that falls over her head, a loss that looks peaceful on the face of her best friend on the floor, who had been once riddled with stress, anxiety, worry, and sadness. He's so _peaceful _now, so quiet, and _why_—_why_ does she hope him to be alive to suffer the same fate as her friends all over again? Why does she want him to wake up to this world that had wronged him so much, deprived him of what he needed? Why does she want this boy who had gained so much scars over the years back into the place that had only granted him so much suffering?

And the answer is simple for Hermione Granger to the Boy-Who-Lived, and now, had eventually died.

It was because Hermione _needed_ him.

He was the rope that tethered her place down onto this earth, and she couldn't bear the thought of the only person who had willed her so much to fight for this cause—to just _go _with no goodbye. Harry had so much to live for—so much to _lose_. And it was unfair—simply _unfair_—to be taken so quick from the world as if everything he had fought and lived for only mattered to life and death as mere dust beneath their feet.

The forest floor now felt heavy with the acknowledgement of the death. The spot where Harry Potter lay dead now felt like a monumental ground Hermione wanted to be drawn to—but at the fear of her own death—she _hadn't_, but she still wanted to. And it pains her to simply watch her best friend on the dirty forest, in his old clothes that hadn't been washed for so long, with his glasses askew on his now palid face, and his entire body in an awkward position that was even unbecoming of him. Hermione knew it was wrong—because this was not a way to _die_. This was _murder_—and it _shouldn't_ have been. Lives didn't have to die, but alas they did, and it tore through Hermione like a hurricance to realise that they had _lost _their chance of survival along with Harry.

Within her, her magic trembled and chaos stewed within her weak body, and she hadn't known when she had started crying, but she just new she did, when she clamped a hand shut over her mouth, and she fisted her hand and bit into her flesh to snuff the cries out. Her vision was blurry from the tears that obfuscated her sight, and slowly, she lost herself. To the forest, to the magic, to the loss.

So many lives had been lost.

So much had been taken away from her.

So much had been sacrificed for the greater good.

Hermione could not accept this, deep down, even though she knew her side was now a lost cause to a man who had finally conquered death—to a man who had _surrounded himself _with death. Utterly genius yet naive really, to escape death by creating it yourself and hiding yourself within it. Being _death _itself, though it was _not_ his job, and simply surrounding himself within a burning world that just proved his insanity. _Hurting children—hunting them—threatening to kill them all. _

What did Voldemort find so hard to understand about life?

That life isn't simply about just living to escape death?

To Hermione, life was made to love death. To learn about life, and eventually accept their ending fate, and accept it with open arms once they were contented with the truth and the fulfillment of their existense. Life was made to move on with life—to come to love what you cannot—to experience mortality and bask within it—to find things worthwhile—and there; those _feelings_ and _emotions _you feel everyday are the immortal aspects of life that live through within everyone—even those who _refuse _to feel it nor acknowledge its existence.

Many things in life could be made immortal—and glory could also be found in many ways.

But building your foundation of immortality through death?—_that was naive. Simple-minded. _

Why build yourself on something so fallible?

Kindness may be deemed a weakness. As well as friendliness. Helpfulness. Everything good in the world may be deemed a weakness—or a niusance, _it didn't matter. _But if you built yoursel on lies, and deceit, and scorn, and hatred, and everything twisted in the world, you'd fall faster the same way you'd built yourself up, and people won't take the side of the openly evil minded when the world, in the first place, was built with unity and foundation.

But Hermione had also kicked herself at the notion when she knew that the entire world was also built with mistrust and deceit, and greed. That Harry had lived only to die through the manipulations of a man who could've fought for their cause himself. That Harry could've lived peacefully if only the right people were trusted, and if only the antagonist of their story had been granted a sliver of a chance to glimpse at what love was—if he had been only _loved _at all, he would've made different decisions. Dumbledore had been biased, their hearts had been weak, their cause was consisted of children, Voldemort was misguided, and his own side prejudiced, their Ministry cowardly, and their whole world, _ignorant_.

She wanted to change everything and rebuild it back to its former state—before _everything had ever even happened. _She wished that she had the strength to call upon greater power to change the world—for her friends and family—just to change their lives for the better, for this bloodshed was useless.

_Unreasonable._

Now, what was only left now was _burning_.

"_But it shall not be_."

A voice had spoken, and all thoughts of hopelessness, of disappointment, of deceit, of loneliness, and everything wicked had escaped Hermione's head in a fast exit, and she found herself turning around, stumbling, falling, gasping, crying—_she does not see, but she hears. _Her fingers that wish to grasp hope only finds air, but she _breathes _it in—and it is rich in magical aura, blemished by the darkness that resided, but it was _hope_, nonetheless, and it was sweet, and it felt _victorious_, and it rushed through her skin like sea breeze blowing her southward, and tempting her to dive in to the ocean of possibilities.

"Wh-what?" Is her weak mumble in reply to the voice of hope, though, and in return, she hears smooth chuckles that boom in her head like the sound of trumpets, and the clashes of glorious lighting in the symphony of the weeping heavens, and it is solace to her quivering core, and a bout of strength that beckons her bravery, brazenness, and her strength to grow in legions.

"_You have a chance, mortal. A chance to go back and change your fate. A chance to live and redirect this unprecedented and immoral present into the path it should've taken._" The voice tells her, and though the presence is invisible, it is unmistakably there, talking through the woodlands and the small sliver of light that passes through the thick branches of the gigantic trees.

"But—that's going against the principle of time! I would be changing _everything_—this world may not exist when I meddle with time!" Is her soft, but exclaimed reply to the invisible voice, and for a moment, Hermione doubts if she hears this voice at all, assumes if she had finally lost her mind, along with Harry and many others who had fought for what they thought was right.

"_Who has said that I am allowing you to change the world? I am merely giving you a chance to change _your _fate, for this world is much foresaken by your perpetrators, as much as your own. Now, go forth._"

Was the final reply from the powerful voice, and then a silence that was thickened by the woodlands followed, slipping a cold feeling into Hermione as she landed back in reality. And then, she was reminded once again by the Death Eaters in the clearing just behind her, along with _Voldemort_, and his dark magic that circled the air, and it brought chills to Hermione.

But then, as she turned around to peer back into the clearing—_not to look at Harry's fallen figure_—she sees something else. It was red—and Hermione was reminded at first of blood, ruby embers that slipped out of cut flesh, and such a divine crimson that trailed down on creamy parchment that she had cut herself on before. She was reminded of flickering red, traffic lights, _stop_—_don't walk_, the kind of red that belonged to jewelry, and roses, or the emotion of anger—_seething wrath. _It was the kind of alarming volcanic red, the viscous lava of a strato volcano, slipping from the crater of its form. The red that came from a bitten pair of lips—a malformed red of crimson acrylic mixed together with vermillion, painted on a blank slate of a canvas.

This red made her heart stop for a moment, and she assumed that they must've heard her spiel of insanity about time.

"It seems you've followed your dear _Chosen One _here, mudblood," Voldemort hissed in that high pitched, sibilant voice of his, syllables emphasised, letting the words trickle fear over her form. That slit on his face supposedly called a mouth twisted into a cruel smirk when he saw the apparent fear of the girl, practically written all over her face. Of course, Hermione didn't even look very strong at the moment, her hair pulled into a messy braid, her face painted with dust, dirt, and smears of blood planted on her lips and her forehead, across her cheeks and her nose. She had such a small form, from months of running, and hunger, and devastation, brought on as well by her emotional suffering and her trauma. She looked warstricken—_which she was_—and the wand that was in her pocket coudln't even be reached without Voldemort catching of the action.

But it was as Harry once said. _Voldemort loved to talk—put on a show before he'd kill. _

Dark figures stood behind Voldemort, and just a bit overhead, Hermione saw Hagrid, and she swallowed down the cold lump in her throat, and she used every amount of power she had to stop herself from falling and crying in front of the Dark Lord just by looking at Harry's peaceful, white face. The tempermental, powerful, sentimental, yet naive boy looked relieveed of everything once again. Hermione coudln't help but let her eyes brim slightly with tears—_but they didn't fall, no_—at the sight of his strewn glasses, lower down on the bridge of his nose. If Harry was alive, he'd have used his forefinger and middle finger to push them up, and he'd be blinking away the disappearing blurriness. But he was not moving, and evern _breathing _was out of the question. His jet black hair was lined with twigs and leaves, and it was a mess really, but when had it not been?

And for some very strange, and utterly _insane_ reason, about of clarity came: Hermione knew that all of _this_ had to be done. That _this—this sacrifice was necessary. _Harry was the lamb Dumbledore had raised, and fattened up for slaughter. Had always told him that Voldemort was his ultimate adversary, and that lives depended on him. But with this bout of clarity came the visciousness which was _anger_. _Betrayal. Deceit. _

_Had Dumbledore let Harry believe that he was utterly alone and had no other way to save others, except to die, because Harry _too _was a horcrux, that Dumbledore had known, would die in the hands of Voldemort alone?_

_Why would such a strong man let children fight the war for him, if he had known? _

Hermione came back to reality, and she found heself feeling even more defeated than before—acknowledging now that it was useless to even feel anything towards their fallen Headmaster—the master of deceit and misguidance. Her limbs now lost the will to move, and her eyes were on Voldemort, afraid if he were to move close to her, her legs ready to step back any moment.

Voldemort caught sight of Hermione's gaze at Harry's fallen figure, and he laughed—bellowed deep and low, and the resounding darkness around them came once more with vengeance. Hagrid was silently shaking with his tears, and Hermione felt her stomach coil with fear. Voldemort stroked the elder wand within his grasp, and Hermione followed the motion silently, his long painist hands now gnarled, ugly fingers playing with unbidden power that poured from his figure.

"Well, it seems that your _Chosen One _has finally failed you, girl," Voldemort hissed, eyes dancing with triumph the colour of blood. "He had come running here—to only accept his fate and _die. _He has left all of you to suffer, alone—_afraid and helpless. _Harry Potter lives _no more_." Voldemort finally pointed his wand, position pointed to Hermione's chest, over her heart.

"You have an option, _mudblood_." Her scar itched at the name. "You either bow down to me, so your petty life might be spared, _or_, you die here now at the expense of your pathetic Gryffindor _courage_ and _naivety._ You decide your fate here and now."

_Her fate. _

"_Your chance to change everything now, witch_," the voice that had the strength to move mountains echoed one last time in Hermione's head, and it filled Hermione with surmounting courage that brimmed over her being, erasing the fear within her eyes. The trembling reluctance in her fingers ceased, and her heart was rooted. _Even if that voice in her head might not be real, she still knew what she wanted to choose. She didn't want to become _anything _to Voldemort. Besides, Voldemort had said he '_might_' spare her life if she were to yield, and Hermione Granger had no doubt he would have killed her ventually in the future. Hermione Granger did not play with probablities._

Her answer was the stark clarity and peace that befell all the once living, and Hermione did not hesitate to look at darkness in the eyes and jut her chin out in the ultimate act of defiance that spoke volumes for such a small obstacle in Voldemort's path. _But she wasn't small—_not at all—_for she was the key player at the hands of everyone's fate. The brightest Witch of her age. Without her, Harry Potter would've long died, along with Ron Weasley, and everyone else. _

"I'd rather die than be under the likes of you," the brazen witch grounded out, and Voldemort looked down upon her figure with contempt and disappointment, such _mocking _in his gaze, that it dugsuted her to no end that he never would truly have _depth _in that gaze of his. His stare of the world will always be covered and vacant, for he'd be blind to the beauties of each soul, and to the small triumphs of each person. He'd never know true happiness, for he'd be destroying the hope and life of what once made the world _worthwhile _to live in. His vacant stare, nor his serpentine features, nor his cruel smirking mouth would never know the true meaning of what it was to live. He'd never know love. _He never has, and never will_.

And for that, Hermione takes pity upon him, and the world who had to suffer his wrath.

"Such a pity," Voldemort tutted, and Hermione nearly hysterically laughed in a bout of insanity from her inner musings. "You had such great potential within you, mudblood."

Hermione smiled at him mockingly, _boldly,_ accepting her fate that _she_ _will die_, but she'd be more inclined to at least give back her last words to the Dark Lord, and give him the sense of mind that her schoolmates have seen, a more personal sense of insight that rooted from her sense of righteousness and moral integrity.

"And you had such great potential in you too, but all you've done is throw everything away for _this_." As expected, Hermione saw his features morph and twist with fury just at the sheer _truth _and _brazenness _of her words, but Hermione suspected that he was too blinded by his power to even acknowledge the truth, therefore, he must've just heard the latter, and sooner than later, his wand was finally glowing with a green light; a bright, sickly shade of emerald green that lit the whole forest ghostly.

"_Avada Kedavra_." The Killing Curse met Hermione and engulfed her,and she expected to be gone and meet the ground as her last thought, before darkness came to soothe her worries. But instead of meeting the ground, she felt herself being swept up _from _the ground, and a warm feeling engulfed her. She felt the air act like warm silk sheets, carrying her in the wind, swaying and bobbing up and down, like she was stranded in a warm sea of light and clouds, and neverending bright light.

She opened her eyes to find flashes of colour, and suddenly, she was _twisting and jerking _painfully, as if her whole being was being folded and thrown around, until her insides felt mashed together, and she saw all of her memories, from the very beginning to the end, and fear coiled in her stomach, and the war _seared _itself into her head, and she felt the first tell-tale signs of guilt for leaving Ron, and Ginny, and Luna, and Neville, and everyone else back on earth to continue suffering.

And that warm sea that bobbed her figure up and down had been sinking into a spiral—_a whirpool of darkness_—and it brought her further down, and down, and _down. _And she remembers that history is not a circle, but a spiral following a cycle of events, not incredibly the same but continuous nontheless, and she cries out, and just _wails—_because she does _not_ know what is happening, and she feels herself slipping and falling, and she loses her thoughts and hits her heads—stars _burst_ in her eyes at her left temple, and she loses her breathing—and _this. This was what she expected of dying, but right now, she felt the complete opposite. _

Before she could even contemplate on her situation, she felt her consciousness slip from her grasp, and she no longer has her friends with her to wake her up and soothe her, and to protect her as she protects them. To give her warm embraces, nor kisses on her cheek. To card their fingers through her curly hair, or to read books with her to find information, nor are they there to hear her cry. For they had not left her—_but she had left them._

She's far, farther than they've _ever_ been before

And they can't reach her—_they can't_, because she's simply not there anymore.

_She's gone._

* * *

Un-beta'd story n stuff, but this is a new one guys. I hope you found it interesting, and also, if you can drop a review, please go ahead and don't be shy! UwU


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